“Write that in your blog.” “Put it in the blog.” “That’s exactly the kind of thing you should be writing.” “I don’t see why you’re not writing this in the blog.”

OK. I get it.

Denver was an overwhelming experience. It was like being on an Outward Bound solo. If I made it, I’d complete the course in advanced politics/film/history that apparently I’ve been on the past six months. In some strange way, I didn’t know about the course. I thought I was passing as a PTA president, learning to survive while not expressing my political opinions. I was practicing being normal, not learning how to navigate and contextualize historic events.

So, here’s one experience I had in Denver, with apologies to the 17 of you who follow me on Twitter.

I met Nancy Pelosi.

I didn’t meet her in a big group or because she was at the Emily’s List reception or because some well connected person, whom I just happened to know for seven seconds, introduced us.

I met Nancy Pelosi because I am friendly in the ladies room.

I am the kind of person who complements women when they’re looking at themselves in the mirror. I admire dresses and necklaces and shoes. It’s a moment of severe self-criticism, when nothing can done about poor choices made at home or difficult moments at the table. It’s a vulnerable moment, one for tiny adjustments, quick touch ups, and deep breaths.

And it all happens in too small a space with unflattering light.

On Tuesday night, I didn’t have a credential to get into the Pepsi Center. Trina, my roommate from Princeton, was long gone to Boulder, and the high of seeing Hillary, Pelosi, and Michelle Obama at the Emily’s List reception was over. I was alone, exhausted, and very hungry.

I went into a little restaurant on Larimer, the block with the San Gennaro festival lights and the flags of 50 states (and those non-states that get to have primaries too–we’ll talk about that another time) hanging across the street. Osteria Marco. You walk downstairs to tables lined by heavy wooden chairs. I found a corner spot at the bar, met a friendly lawyer from Denver, and started to think that coming might not have been a complete mistake.

To get to the ladies room, I had to walk by, around, really, a woman planted in the narrow hallway. The telltale clear plastic old fashioned telephone cord  ran down one side of her neck. Secret Service. They were everywhere in Denver. Even on the way to the bathroom of a basement restaurant.

The ladies room was unusually dark with fantastic outstretched frog/harlequin wallpaper. The stalls were to the left of the door and the sinks to the right. It was, perhaps, the cutest, most awkward ladies room I’ve ever been in. No room for a purse on the pedestal sinks. You had to put it on the floor to get out your makeup or your evening scarf or your four inch platform leopard peep toes. Seventeen and In Style and Vogue never tell you exactly how you’re supposed to make this crucial transformation from day to night. They seem to assume that you’ll have all the room in the world to pull the superhero switch.

As I walked out of the stall, I had to maneuver around a woman hunched over two open bags. Let’s call what she was doing freshening up. It involved paper towels and a clean blouse. As Chairwoman of the Ladies Room Welcoming Committee, I said that I’d done what she was doing many times. A simple truth.

She’d just arrived at the restaurant directly from the airport. Where are you from? Houston. Houston? I’m from Austin. I used to live in Houston. What do you do? I’m in art education. Really? I work on education policy in Texas (OK, a stretch perhaps, but forgive me. Plus, I know more about education policy in Texas than anyone should have to know who’s not actually writing it.) Do you know, Rice University, blah blah blah as she zipped up her bags and walked out ahead of me. This hallway was single file only.

Why are you here in Denver? Are you a delegate? No, I’m here with my family. With my mom. Who’s your mom?

I didn’t have to ask, because at that moment, the Speaker of the House was standing beside the lady linebacker.

There was Nancy Pelosi, arm around her daughter, telling her something about the table.

After all the training I’ve had from my dad, I had to do it. I couldn’t give Nancy Pelosi a quiet moment with her daughter. I reached out my hand. She shook it. I told her how much I’d enjoyed the event that afternoon. And then I added that I’d seen her at Netroots Nation in July.

Wasn’t Al Gore wonderful? asked the Speaker of the House.

Yes, he really was, I agreed.

Me and Nancy Pelosi. Al Gore fans. Who knew?

OK, Daddy. Maybe a little more information about the ladies room than you needed to know, but I hope you’re happy. And thanks for the cheerleading.

Friday morning. I’m back in the Limesicle Cafe.  My night last night took on a truly cinematic quality. I hope it will become clear when I download the pictures (didn’t do it this morning–sorry–needed coffee too bad).

It was a journey, or a series of journeys. I was the stranger thrust into the group of three friends. I can’t write up the entire thing right now. But when I got back to John’s at 1:45(!), I wrote notes on the day. From most recent to the beginning. It was a rewind. Each thing was so clear and so solid in its moment, it was hard to remember things from the beginning of the day. The end was so intense, it required all the space my brain had for the day. So I had to retrace my steps backwards.

As I wrote last night, I sat next to a wonderful woman from Denver (but a New Yorker and Columbia Journalism School grad!) name Jeannine. It was one of those moments where you’re thrown into an experience and you get lucky. I could have been sitting next to Jim the Disgruntled Recycling Volunteer who had been sitting in my seat until the Sandy the Super Usher told him that these seats were not for volunteers and that he was supposed to be working. The seat was empty for nearly two hours until I came through the gate, walked up to Jeannine, and asked if the seat was taken. She welcomed me to our little spot, overlooking the field, press forty feet behind us (but a world of sound-proof glass away), like being on a ski lift for three+ hours with a stranger who’s going to see you laugh and cry and dance and scream. In other words, you’re not a stranger for long.

That’s why, when the speech was over and the fireworks done, I headed out with Jeannine to meet her friends Catherine and Macayla. I wasn’t ready for the night to end and I couldn’t be alone. We walked from the stadium back to downtown, on a shut down road that crossed over the interstate. Not a single car on I-25. There were thousands of people leaving Invesco, walking over this road, seeing the empty interstate. That’s when I began to feel like I was in a movie. That this was a shot of people leaving the site of a disaster. I flashed to the people on the highway after Katrina. (I’ve seen a documentary with footage of that scene twice in the last month, so it’s in my mind’s eye.)

We interrupt this post with a live report from your ace radio reporter:

Mike McDonald is on the radio here at the Limesicle! You don’t know me, but I’m your brother! Michael McDonald is taking it to the streets.

So, here’s what Jeannine and I had to say about Michael McDonald:

1. He’s the Democrat’s answer to Kennny Rogers.
2. I prayed the second I saw him that he wouldn’t sing “Ja Mo Be There” (or however the fuck you spell that title).
3. Jeannine replied that it would be fine if he just changed the lyrics to “Obama be there, baby.”
4. I think she’s right.

And now back to our regularly programmed blogging.

Oh, fuck that. That’s a perfect taste of what last night was like. Cinematic. Apocalyptic. Long. Funny. Random.Michael McDonald. I think he was a little eye candy for the Active Grannies.

Now Sly’s reminding me that I’m everyday people. I gotta head back to John’s. Go look at some art, check out Denver, the Aftermath.  Then home to Austin and the fight for the future.